<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>girlfriend? or girl, that's a friend? by mossintheconcrete</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398176">girlfriend? or girl, that's a friend?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossintheconcrete/pseuds/mossintheconcrete'>mossintheconcrete</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunter X Hunter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Can i even tag leorio??, Concerts, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, Picnics, all fun wlw activities lmao, also amane works at a bike shop but theres no tag for that, he's there only if you squint really hard, hxhrpbb2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:42:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossintheconcrete/pseuds/mossintheconcrete</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"A flower shop? Why would they want flowers? They run a bike repair shop, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like Silva had never been there before. </p><p>Amane glares down at the paper as she crumples it into her back pocket. The sooner she gets there, the sooner she could come back to work. </p><p>She’s passed by this shop hundreds of times on her way to work, she realizes. But it’s the first time she’s ever stopped in front of it. Which is nothing to say at the store or it’s appearance, Amane has just never really had a thing for flowers."</p><p>Amane's sent away from her grandmother's motorcycle-repair shop to buy flowers at the shop down the street. She's never thought much of it until she steps inside and meets Canary, and now suddenly she can't stop thinking about it. </p><p>Why can't she stop thinking about it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amane/Canary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>girlfriend? or girl, that's a friend?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! i have a couple of things to say before we get to the actual writing</p><p> one: thank you so much for checking out this fic!! it's my first time posting on archive and i am, admittedly, very nervous lmao<br/>two: this is actually my part for the hunter x hunter rare-pair big bang on tumblr! i have never entered a fandom event before (or, y'know, any kind of writing event) but it was such an amazing experience! the mods were wonderful and all of the participants were so kind and fun to talk to, and it made the experience very welcoming :') </p><p>three: i got to partner with the amazing <a href="https://onyxangel.tumblr.com/">@onyxangel</a> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/noiseofecho/">(@noiseofecho on instagram)</a><br/>and it was amazing!! they are so kind and im so lucky we got to collaborate on this project together! you can check out the piece they drew for this fic <a href="https://onyxangel.tumblr.com/post/633986612814020608/heres-my-finished-piece-for-the-hxhrarepairbb-i">here!!</a></p><p> </p><p>four: also thank you to z and robbie for listening to my endless late-night rambles while i was working on this :') your presence is much appreciated i love yall</p><p>anyway thank you again for clicking on this and i hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amane hates inspection day with a burning passion. Once a month, without fail, Mr. Zoldyck comes by and ruthlessly inspects every shop on mainstreet. It’s not that Amane hates Mr. Zoldyck—he owns every building on mainstreet. He and his wife are notoriously and absolutely terrifying—it’s just that every inspection, Amane is pointed away from servicing the bikes of customers and instead becomes a temporary errand-girl. </p><p>And so when inspection day rolls around in May, Tsubone takes to nearly bodily shoving her out the door. “Go, go, go! Silva is coming at five sharp and you have to be back by then!” she tuts in the voice she uses when she knows Amane might argue.</p><p>Fortunately, (or unfortunately, she hasn’t decided yet), Amane does not have a death wish. So she takes the paper Tsubone shoves into her hands and goes—albeit unwillingly—out the door. The little bell above the door jingles obnoxiously on her way out. </p><p>It’s rather warm outside for May, the sunlight reflecting off of the colourful storefronts decorating the main street. Amane shields the sun from her eyes as she glances up at the metal lettering above their shop awning that reads <i>Rider’s High</i>. The R is crooked. She’ll have to pull out the stepladder later and fix it. Again. </p><p>For now, though, she needs to focus on the task at hand. The crumpled slip of paper Tsubone pressed into her hands has directions to a nearby flower shop written in her familiar, loopy handwriting. , is what it says. </p><p>A flower shop? Why would they want flowers? They run a bike repair shop, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like Silva had never been there before. </p><p>Amane glares down at the paper as she crumples it into her back pocket. The sooner she gets there, the sooner she could come back to work. </p><p>She’s passed by this shop hundreds of times on her way to work, she realizes. But it’s the first time she’s ever stopped in front of it. Which is nothing to say at the store or it’s appearance, Amane has just never really had a thing for flowers. </p><p>It is lovely though, huge planters hanging in the windows, stretching their leaves towards the sunlight. There're little wildflowers growing in the cracks of the stones leading up to the door, which Amane is careful not to tread over. <i>Nen Gardens</i> is painted a deep green colour across the board nailed above the door.</p><p>Amane carefully pushes open the door and is a little surprised to hear the same bell jingle. Inside the shop, bags of soil are pushed against the wall next to shelves of empty pots and other gardening supplies. Towards the windows, there are stands of freshly-cut flowers and spools of ribbon for wrapping bouquets. Amane nearly does a double-take when she notices what seems to be an entire tree growing happily in the corner behind the register, which, Amane also notes, is empty. </p><p>Curiously, Amane peers into a door that must lead into the back of the shop. It’s ajar, but she doesn’t see anyone. She sighs. Who leaves their store unsupervised like this? How irresponsible.</p><p>In her head, she’s scolding whoever is in charge of this establishment. Except when she turns back around to sigh and locks eyes with someone behind the counter. </p><p>She screams.  </p><p>Amane claps her hand over her mouth. The girl behind the counter is wearing a dirt-smeared apron, and was definitely not there four seconds ago. </p><p>“You—Why—When did you get here?” Amane hisses, and the girl has the gall to look amused. </p><p>The girl shrugs, “I’ve been here the whole time.” She pauses, “And I work here.” </p><p>Amane opens her mouth, closes it, has half a mind to say something stupid, then shakes her head. The plan was get in, get out. She’s in, now she just has to get out. </p><p>“Okay, um, well I’m just here to pick up something. Should be under the name ‘Tsubone’?” Amane pulls the paper back out of her pocket, and that's when she notices a smear of grease on her arm. She wipes it on her jeans and hands the paper to the girl. </p><p>The girl takes it, her lips lifted into a tiny smile. “Right,” she says, and motions for Amane to wait as she disappears into the back room. </p><p>While she waits, Amane contemplates where in God’s name the girl came from so suddenly. She’ll never admit it, but she snoops over the counter to see if there’s anything behind it. On the floor are stacks of paper—sorted, it looks like. Amane smacks her forehead. She’d probably just been sitting down there, organizing or something. Her forehead stings, but she only winces when she remembers her earlier behaviour. She could probably stand to be a little nicer. </p><p>When the girl comes back out the door, Amane offers her the nicest smile she can, (in lieu of a verbal apology). The girl smiles back and hefts the two big potted plants she’s holding up onto the counter. A little tag taped to one of the pots reads ‘Tsubone’ in neat print, and the girl promptly rips it off and tosses it into the garbage can.</p><p>“Here, that should be all.” The girl smiles again, and Amane nods as she hoists both pots into her arms. </p><p>She’s almost out the door in her haste before she remembers and looks back. “Thank you-” Amane looks down at her name tag, “-Canary!” and pushes the door open with her shoulder. </p><p><i>Pretty name</i>, Amane thinks as she walks back down the street.</p><p>When she gets back, Tsubone fusses immediately over where to put the plants. She rushes and rushes because it’s almost five o’clock and Amane suggests by the window where the sun will be able to hit them. </p><p>When Silva arrives for inspection, he gives an approving nod towards the state of their shop. </p><p>----------</p><p>Office work is boring. Paperwork is boring. Working at the counter is <i>boring</i>.</p><p>There’s nothing to do but procrastinate, tap a pen against the desk, and think.</p><p>Which, unfortunately, Amane has been doing a lot of lately. Particularly in the direction of the two plants sitting by the windows, which seem to taunt at her with their leaves and twigs and remind her of her visit to the flower shop two weeks ago.</p><p>Which is ridiculous, isn’t it?</p><p>Amane’s never liked flowers, she’d always thought they were silly. A stupid gesture, to give someone a flower that was just going to die. She’d thought it best to avoid flower shops, as they were a waste of time better spent elsewhere. </p><p>So why can’t she stop thinking about it? (Or rather, reminiscing about it rather dramatically in her head while she’s supposed to be doing paperwork.)</p><p>She shakes her head, trying to clear it like it’s an imaginary cartoonish cloud above her head. Her pen clicks. She really should work on this month’s inventory report. </p><p>But it seems today’s just not the day for that because right then someone comes, quite literally, crashing through the front door. They very nearly topple over the plants on their way in and Amane tries not to wince. Maybe she should move them. </p><p>The person straightens up, brushing themselves off as if to regain their composure. Amane realizes with a start that it’s the girl from the flower shop. </p><p>She shoves her paperwork aside. “Can I...help you?” </p><p>The girl—Canary, she remembers—clears her throat. “Er, yes actually. You see, I have to make this urgent delivery but my manager took the car and I just noticed you riding around town on your motorcycle,” she pauses, “And I was wondering if you could, uh, give me a ride? I’ll pay you back somehow, of course, I just really, <i>really</i> need to deliver this soon.”</p><p>“Oh.” Amane blinks, taking in the white box tucked under her arm. Then, “Oh, yeah, yeah sure let me just-” She yanks her phone out of her back pocket, fumbling as she texts Tsubone to tell her where she’s going. </p><p>“C’mon, she’s parked out back.” Amane turns and heads towards the back door, Canary close on her heels. She pauses to hunt down a spare helmet and a pair of gloves before pushing out into the sunshine. </p><p>Behind the store is nothing but a teeny, barely five car parking lot that connects to the main road. Usually, it’s empty save for the motorcycle that Amane rides to work every morning. </p><p>It’s a lovely thing, sleek with purple accents, loved from years upon years of use. Amane’d started building it, with Tsubone’s help of course, when she turned sixteen. It was her first big project with the family trade, outside of helping around the shop every once in a while after school. </p><p>Now, she spends all her time building and fixing bikes just like this one. But this one is hers, and she’s ready to go. </p><p>“Here,” she offers Canary the helmet and gloves, exchanging them for the large, white box she’s holding. With practiced and careful ease, she ties it down to the back of the bike before taking her seat behind the handlebars. </p><p>She pulls on the other pair of gloves she usually keeps tucked into her pocket. The leather is smooth and familiar along her hands, and she tightens her fingers experimentally. Canary’s pulling on her own gloves, looking very much unprepared for the situation. </p><p>The corner of Amane’s lips lift into a smile at that. </p><p>Her helmet fits on her head with the same familiarity as the gloves, snug around her temples. “Where do you need to go?”</p><p>Canary struggles a bit pulling the helmet over her hair before she answers. “Do you know the church behind the supermarket on sixth street?” </p><p>“Yup.” Amane thinks about the route they’ll have to take to get there in minimum time. “Okay, climb on behind me,” she instructs. Clumsily, Canary swings her leg over the side of the bike and pushes herself on. The bike wobbles a bit. “Perfect. You’re going to have to hold on to me while we drive. Here,” taking one of Canary’s gloved hands in her own, she pulls the arm around her waist. Canary gets the idea and loops around with her other arm. </p><p>“Good. Okay, before we go I have to tell you the rules, to be safe. When we stop, don’t let your feet touch the ground. If you want me to slow down, tap my left leg. If you’re okay, tap my right.” </p><p>Canary nods, scrunching up her nose under the helmet's visor as she commits the rules to memory. </p><p>“Ready?” </p><p>“I’m...I’m ready.” Her arms tighten around her waist. Amane only dwells on it for a second. </p><p>She turns the key in the ignition, and they can feel the loud hum of the bike coming to life beneath them. It occurs to Amane that this might be Canary’s first time riding a motorcycle, and that this is also a matter of urgency. She’d better make it a good ride, then. </p><p>She revs the engine, and then they’re off. </p><p>It’s been a while since Amane rode with another person. She’s unused to the extra weight when she turns out of the lot and onto the main road. Fortunately, she becomes accustomed to it quickly as they speed down Main Street. They pass by <i>Nen Gardens</i> within seconds, turning it into a blurred streak that fades behind them.</p><p>The wind rushes around them as they veer past the post office and around the corner, only stopping when they pause at a red light. There’s a light tap on Amane’s right thigh. </p><p>
  <i>I’m okay.</i>
</p><p>Amane cracks a smile. </p><p>The light goes green, and they take off again. They rush past cars and along the roads, Canary’s grip tightening when they turn their third corner. Amane finds she really doesn’t mind it. </p><p>Fortunately, the church is close by. It is a small town, after all. Amane suspects it would be easy to walk there if the delivery wasn’t so urgent. </p><p>She’s never actually been here, she muses, as they pull into the parking lot. Once they’re parked and Canary’s removed her helmet, Amane helps her untie the box from the back of the bike. </p><p>“I’ll be right back,” she says, and turns to speed-walk up the stairs and through the door. She’s got the box tucked under one arm, the helmet under the other. </p><p>Amane leans against the bike and takes it in. It’s a nice church, she supposes, although she doesn’t have much to go off of. There’s a sign at the bottom of the stairs decorated in flowers that reads <i>Mrs. and Mr.</i><br/>
Ah. A wedding. That must be what the delivery is for. </p><p>It’s only minutes before Canary’s bounding down the stairs, no longer carrying the box. “I really appreciate this,” she says. “Sorry to be so sudden.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Amane waves her off. “I’d never pass up a chance to escape paperwork anyway.”</p><p>Canary smiles at that. “By the way, I, uh, realized that I’d never introduced myself. My name’s Canary.” Amane already knew that, thinking back to that day in the shop, reading off her nametag in her head. Canary’s hand sticks out, offering to shake. </p><p>She takes it. “I’m Amane.”</p><p>“Ah, I knew your name wasn’t Tsubone.” It seems like it’s supposed to be something Canary means for herself, but Amane asks anyway.</p><p>“Sorry, what?” </p><p>“It’s just, when you picked up that order the other day, you didn’t sound anything like the woman I spoke with on the phone is all.” Canary laughs. “I figured you had to be someone else.”</p><p>“Ah, yeah,” Amane gives a tiny smile. “Tsubone’s my grandmother.” </p><p>“Cool, cool. I’m glad I know your name now, Amane.” </p><p>Jesus Christ, does she always smile this bright? Her ears feel hot. “Y-yeah. You too.”</p><p>Canary pulls the spare helmet back over her head. Amane notes she’s a lot more confident in the way she does it the second time. Although she’s still clumsy swinging her leg over the bike. Her arms wrap around her waist for the second time that day.</p><p>“Ready to go?”</p><p>Canary nods behind her, giving a tap on her right thigh.</p><p>----------<br/>
Amane can’t remember why she came to the store in the first place. Under the guise of examining the potted plants for ideas for the shop, she thinks. It doesn’t really matter what it was, though. Why did she find her way back here again? Why is she staying so long? How can she and Canary hold a conversation when they’ve only met twice before, and on brief occasions too?</p><p>“Have you been to the Biscuit Cafe?”</p><p>That startles her out of her tirade, looking over from where she’s reading the poster taped to the window. It’s decked out in neon coloured letters, advertising an EP release concert for a band she’s heard of in passing from customers. “Have I been to the what?” </p><p>Canary’s sorting the money from today's sales at the register, but her hands still when Amane walks over. She smiles and looks up, “Biscuit Cafe. It’s new, just opened up a couple blocks down the street.”</p><p>“Oh, no I haven’t.” Amane leans against the counter to watch as Canary starts to recount the bills. </p><p>“My manager is friends with the owner, he says she’s a lovely baker.” Canary’s smile turns almost nervous then. “Would you want to check it out with me? As repayment for last week.”</p><p>Ah, right. Amane had all but forgotten the ride last week. Although she had, of course, forgotten Canary’s promise to ‘pay her back’. She pushes the toe of her boot into the floorboards as she thinks. It does sound nice. </p><p>“Yeah,” Amane winces when her voice cracks, “Yeah, I would.” </p><p>“Great!” The grin that tugs at Canary’s mouth just then makes Amane want to bash her head into the wall. She’s already started to put the money into an envelope before she’s pushing open the staff-only door. “I’ll be right back,” she calls over her shoulder.</p><p>Amane glances around nervously, tapping her fingers on the desk. She catches sight of her reflection in the store window and discreetly undoes her ponytail. Does it look better down? She fluffs it a bit. But won’t Canary notice that she took it down? </p><p>“Ready?” </p><p>“Jesus--christ,” Amane nearly jumps out of her skin when Canary’s voice sounds behind her. Canary smiles, a mirth in her eyes, from where she’s locking the staff door.</p><p>“Sorry,” she says, dropping her keys into her bag. It’s a little odd, seeing her without the shop apron and the dirt on her hands.</p><p>“‘S alright,” Amane offers her a smile in return. The little bell above the door jingles when she  pushes it open. “Ready.”</p><p>---</p><p>“It is...alarmingly pink.”</p><p>Canary snorts. </p><p>“Like,” Amane blinks hard, like it’ll somehow make the insides of the cafe slightly less blinding. The walls are painted a light dusty shade of pink, which would probably be nice if they weren’t accented by pink furniture, lacy curtains, and oddly magenta doors. “This kinda hurts my eyes.”</p><p>“Then hopefully, the food is as good as I hear,” Canary makes an obvious effort not to look amused as she motions for them to step up to the counter. The pink, frilly counter. Jesus Christ.</p><p>“Hello, welcome, what can I get started for you?” The blonde woman at the counter says in a voice so sweet she must give the cakes in the display a run for their money. Her name tag reads <i>Bisky</i> in a loopy, pink font. Amane feels a little jab in her side. She looks over at Canary, who glances at the name tag, and then back. Amane has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. </p><p>True to her word, though, Canary pays for everything. They choose the least blinding table by the front window and collapse into their chairs. </p><p>“It’s...It’s like Barbie's Dreamhouse,” is all Canary manages to say before they both burst into laughter. Amane would be worried about attracting attention from other patrons but the whole situation is just so odd and hilarious she can’t find it in herself to care. </p><p>“S-seriously, I can’t believe it—the brand, it fits so well.”</p><p>“Me either, I mean I’ve heard some strange things but-” </p><p>Amane wipes the tears from her eyes. “It’s not even that bad, just, just the whole thing together-” she tries desperately to stop laughing. It doesn’t go very well. </p><p>They both manage to compose themselves as someone at the pickup counter calls Canary’s name. With one last giggle, Canary mimes wiping her face into neutrality. Amane snorts as she gets up to grab their order. </p><p>“So,” Canary starts once she sits back down, idly swirling her straw around her drink. For some reason, the rhythm of the clinking ice against the plastic gives her goosebumps. Canary looks up at her. “What’s the story about <i>Rider’s High</i>? How come you started working there?” </p><p>“Ah, well, the shop’s been in my family for about…” she counts off each finger, “four generations? It was my great grandma who started getting into the industry, and she taught it all to my grandma. I’ve been learning from Tsubone ever since I was a kid, how to fix things and stuff.” Amane can feel her face light up with a soft kind of pride. “And I built that bike we rode last week myself.”</p><p>Canary eyes grow wide. “You <i>built</i> that? Like from scratch?” </p><p>“Yup.” Amane grins, “Started building it when I turned sixteen.” She’s not usually one to brag, but she likes to think that it’s something to be proud of. </p><p>“Holy shit, that is so cool,” Canary whistles appreciatively. Amane traces her finger in the condensation on her drink, trying not to look as prideful as she feels.</p><p>Maybe she should try and get to know Canary better? Learn a little more about this girl with butterfly-shaped clips in her hair. That is what friendly outings are for, after all. </p><p>“What about you?” Amane asks. “How come you started working at <i>Nen Gardens</i>?” </p><p>Canary shrugs. “I needed a part-time job during school. It was nearby and I figured it would be easy work, turns out I had a knack of gardening the whole time. I got kind of attached so I just...kept working there.” She smiles sheepishly at that. “Not nearly as cool as a trade passed down through generations.” </p><p>“No, no, no! That’s really cool, growing plants is really hard! And flowers are cool!” Amane finds that when the words fall out of her lips, they aren’t a lie. That’s odd. She wasn’t supposed to like flowers. </p><p>Canary laughs at her reassurance. “I was only kidding,” she smiles down at her cup. “Kind of.” Amane almost misses the last part, but she manages to catch it like a butterfly under a net. She smiles down at her own drink. Why does her stomach feel funny?</p><p>---</p><p>The dying sunlight pushing through the pink curtains washes the whole cafe in an orange light. The clock on the far wall indicates it’s been more than a few hours since they arrived, and Amane’s phone is buzzing with a missed text notification. It’s Tsubone, asking where she is. </p><p>She opens her mouth to speak, but Canary beats her to it. “Have to go?” she asks. Amane nods, wordlessly. Their chairs scrape across the ground as they both stand, Canary gathering their empty cups to toss in the garbage can. </p><p>It’s chilly outside, standing in the shade under the awning. Canary turns to face her. “Thank you for joining me,” she says. Amane kicks a pebble around the side-walk, biting back her smile. </p><p>“You too, thank you for paying.” </p><p>“Of course, I owed you one,” Canary winks at her then, and Amane tries really hard to hide her snort in her hand. </p><p>She fumbles with her phone in her pocket, thinking about what a good time she had. Canary’s really...nice to be around. She’s good at filling in the conversation where Amane doesn’t know how to, doesn’t seem to mind her awkwardness. Her thumb fiddles with the home button. It’s now or never, really, because she’s not sure she’ll work up the courage ever again. </p><p>“Hey, uh, before you go. Would you want to...exchange numbers?”</p><p>It takes only a millisecond before Canary breaks out into a smile brighter than the sun disappearing beyond the buildings. “Sure. Yeah, that sounds awesome.”</p><p>Amane smiles then, too. Her phone is at the ready in her hands, and she opens up a blank contact page. Canary’s got hers out, too, pushing it into Amane’s hands in exchange for hers. Her tongue sticks out a little as she gets to work typing her number in, and Amane looks back down before she can get caught staring. </p><p>She sets her name as <i>Amane</i>, and then as an afterthought, she adds a smiley face. Canary snorts when she gets her phone back. “I like the smiley,” she says. Amane tries not to think about the burn in her ears. Canary pockets her phone, tucking her hands into the folds of her sweater to warm them up. “I’ll see you around, yeah? Text me.” </p><p>“Yeah, I will,” she says, watching as Canary begins to turn away, heading down the street the way they came. When she has to stop at the crosswalk, she turns around to wave. Amane waves back, before noticing the light change. She frantically points at it until Canary understands, scurrying across the street before it turns red again. Amane can hear her laughing, and it’s hard not to join in. </p><p>Once she’s too far to see, Amane looks back down at the open contact page. She’s set her profile picture as a little yellow bird. A canary, she realizes. </p><p>That’s absurdly cute. </p><p>She doesn’t think about it at all on the walk back. Not a bit. </p><p>----------</p><p>Amane doesn’t usually keep her phone on her when she’s working. It gets in the way when she works on customers’ bikes, and is certainly a welcome distraction when she’s sitting at the desk. Which is why Tsubone used her grandmotherly I-could-kick-your-ass authority to push the no phones during work rule. </p><p>Today, however, was an exception, because Amane was expecting a call from a customer and therefore reasoned with Tsubone to let her pocket it for the day. </p><p>Which is why she nearly trips over her broom when it vibrates as she’s doing cleanup for the day. She pauses from sweeping up the dirt in the entryway to fish it out of her pocket. Who would be texting her this late in the day? The customer had already been taken care of, and no one else really texted her that often. </p><p><i>Canary</i> flashes across her screen underneath the text icon. The more reasonable part of Amane wonders why Canary’s texting her so soon. The other part of her is caught up on the weird feeling in her stomach. </p><p>She opens the notification. It’s a picture, a little character keychain in the palm of Canary’s hand. That’s odd, it looks strangely similar to a keychain that Amane has attached to her keys.</p><p><i>Is this yours?</i> comes in right after. </p><p>Huh. Amane props her broom against one of the chairs and rifles under the counter for her bag. She pulls out the keyring. Sure enough, the little character is missing. </p><p><i>Yes!</i> she types back. Huh, she hadn’t noticed it missing. Maybe she dropped it at the cafe yesterday?</p><p>Her phone pings with a notification. <i>Thought so :)</i> </p><p>The little dots pop up to indicate that she’s typing. <i>I’m closing up rn, I’ll drop it off?</i></p><p>Amane smiles without even thinking about it. <i>Sure, thank you :)</i></p><p>It’s only about fifteen minutes before the sound of the little bell above the door is accompanied by footsteps, and Canary pokes her head into the shop. </p><p>“Just a second!” Amane shouts. She makes an attempt to stand from where she’s cleaning underneath the desk, and promptly slams the back of her head into the table. “Shit!”</p><p>“Christ,” Canary leans her head over the counter so she can see what a predicament Amane’s gotten herself into. “Are you alright?” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” She takes care to not hurt herself as she tries to stand a second time. Her hand comes up to rub the bump forming on the back of her head. That’s certainly going to hurt for a while. “Sorry about that, hi.” </p><p>Canary smiles, looking like she’s trying very hard to hide her amusement. The crinkles around her eyes give it away, though. “Hi.” She pulls something out of her pocket, the little keychain. “Here, I saw you drop it as we left yesterday but I forgot to give it back.” </p><p>Amane holds her hand out so Canary can drop it into her open palm. It makes a little clinking sound as it does. “Thanks for bringing it back. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing yet,” Amane admits with a sheepish smile. She gets to work reattaching it to her keys.</p><p>“Oh, it’s no problem,” Canary says, leaning back on her heels. She seems to be surveying the inside of the store, and it dawns upon Amane that this might be the first time she’s really been able to look inside. The last time had been in a rush, after all. Her eyes fall on the plants sitting by the door, and she remembers something, a conversation with Tsubone from the other day. </p><p>“Oh, right, uh, Tsubone wanted me to ask you if that plant was doing okay?” Amane points at the one on the left, with reddish leaves and large red buds. It’s drooping, the buds weighing it down like they’re too heavy for the stems. </p><p>Canary crouches down on the ground, reaches out a hand to gently lift one of its stems. Amane observes from above her, noticing the way her lips purse as she pushes her fingertip into the dirt.</p><p>“I think you’re watering it too much. Dahlias are only supposed to be watered up to three times a week. How often do you water it?”</p><p>“Ah,” Amane’s cheeks suddenly grow warm. She rubs her arm, “Once a day? Sometimes I do it in the morning and then Tsubone forgets I did it so she does it again.” </p><p>Canary hums thoughtfully. “That would do it. You should be able to keep it alive so long as you start watering it less. Maybe…” she trails off, pushing the pot a little more to the left. “Move it a bit, so it can get some more sun.” She stands up, brushing off her pant legs. </p><p>“Okay, I’ll make sure we do that.” Amane offers her a smile, small and genuine. “Thank you again, I appreciate it.”</p><p>“Of course,” Canary rocks back on her heels. “Feel free to text me about the plants. Or, you know. Just text me.” She shrugs, if Amane didn’t know better, she’d think her cheeks were a little flushes. </p><p>“I’ll...I’ll definitely do that.” </p><p>“Awesome,” Canary pushes open the door. “I’ll see you later, then.” She offers a wave before she goes, and Amane returns it happily. </p><p>Smiling at her retreating back, Amane looks down at the dahlia. It seems to give her a knowing look. “What?” she asks it aloud. The smile in her voice answers the question for her. </p><p>----------</p><p>The concrete floors on the garage are cold against her knees. She’s got a wrench in hand, inspecting the front of a customer’s bike. One of their regulars, whom Tsubone loves to chat up as she’s sitting at the front desk, comes in every month or so for maintenance. Amane can never remember his name, Leo...something, she reckons. But he’s got a rad bike, an old, clunky thing from the 1900’s. He’s garnered her favour in that department, and Tsubone’s in the conversation department, which earns him the title of favourite customer. </p><p>He’s got Tsubone laughing at something so loudly she can hear it all the way through the open garage door. She rolls her eyes good naturedly, even if they can’t see her. </p><p>Leo-something’s bike is finally in need of a tire change, so she gets to work. She’s rather lucky, tire-changing is relatively simple for someone so practiced, which means her mind can wander. Which is exactly what she does as she goes through the practiced motions of removing the front tire. </p><p>She can hear Tsubone and the customer talking, then, and she can hear Leo-something mention a familiar-sounding name. Something about a band performing at the bar where he worked. <i>The Phantom Troupe.</i> Huh, where has she heard that before? </p><p>Big, neon letters flash in her brain. Ah, that’s right. The poster on the flower shop window was advertising a concert for that band. She remembers considering going, intrigued by the cool name and cooler-looking band. </p><p>Now she’s thinking about the flower shop, of course, and one amused smile flits to the front of her mind. </p><p>She wonders if Canary likes concerts.</p><p>She shakes that thought from her mind as soon as it surfaces, tightening the bolt on the wheel with way too much force. There’s no way Canary would want to go to a concert with her, wouldn’t that be weird? </p><p>Something else surfaces in her mind. Their late night text conversations, always running much too far into the evening. Tsubone had begun to point out how tired she seemed in the morning. She always waved it off, because, admittedly, she loved those stupid conversations. </p><p>She thinks about how Canary always manages to text right before she takes her lunch break, or sometimes even show up out of the blue and offer to go somewhere. Amane didn’t remember ever telling her when her lunch break was. Admittedly, she could figure out how Canary knew, but the thought made her stomach do somersaults. </p><p>Once, Amane took her break early on purpose just so she could walk over to the flower shop and give Canary some cookies she’d helped Tsubone make that weekend. The look of surprise on Canary’s face when she pushed open the door was new, and it made Amane’s insides twist into knots. They ended up going on a walk around Main Street together, Amane pointing out her favourite places to go and Canary returning the favour. At one point, they both pointed at the same record store, exchanging a glance before they burst into laughter. </p><p>They took a detour into the store, and didn’t leave until Amane’s phone told her that her break ended in five minutes. </p><p>Maybe it wouldn’t be weird after all. Maybe she would say yes, Amane muses. Standing, she mulls it over as she repositions to work on the back tire. </p><p>Of course, that assumes she was ever going to ask her. Which would most likely result in her making a complete ass of herself. She cringes at the thought. Best to spare the both of them from the embarrassment. </p><p>But, for some reason, she can’t stop thinking about it. Now that the idea is in her head, it’s stuck there like chewing gum on a tire. She takes out her uncertainty on the actual chewing gum stuck to the bike’s back tire. </p><p>Would it really be such a bad idea to ask her?  What’s the worst that could happen? She could stop talking to her, sure, but Amane reasons that’s a bit of an extreme reaction. And she has a hard time imagining Canary doing something like that, anyway. </p><p>She thinks about it all throughout changing the second tire. And through testing it out to make sure it works. She thinks about it when Leo-something (“Mr. Leorio!” he reminds her, rather forcefully) starts chattering to her about the bike. </p><p>Later, Tsubone scolds her for acting so cold to him, and she doesn’t bother explaining her predicament. </p><p>Her fingers ached from the number of texts she’d typed out and deleted, all of the same variety. </p><p><i>Hey, would you want to go to a concert with me?</i> </p><p>
  <i>Yo, concert? You in?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Hey Canary, I was just wondering if you would be interested in going to this musical event with me? :)</i>
</p><p>How Canary managed to just...pop into the shop and ask if she wanted to get lunch began to baffle her. There was no way asking could just be that easy. </p><p>She’s still drafting text messages in her head as she stands in front of the mirror, brushing her teeth. Her toothpaste spit made a blob in the sink that looked suspiciously like a music note. She decided to put it out of her mind after that. There would always be tomorrow morning to think about it. Maybe Canary would even come in for lunch, and she’d just blurt it out then. </p><p>The corners of her lips lift into an involuntary smile at that thought. </p><p>And when she closes her eyes, she dreams of unsent text messages and the sound of drums. </p><p>----------</p><p>“Apple jam,” Canary says as a way of greeting that morning. It’s rather chilly for a June morning, so she’s wearing a yellow knitted cardigan bunched up to her elbows. Amane pointedly does not notice the freckle just below her elbow. </p><p>“I’m sorry?” Amane asks, even as she takes the jar from Canary’s out-stretched hands. She turns it over, reading the handwritten label that says <i>Amane</i> on the front. </p><p>“We have this huge apple tree in my apartment complex. No one ever picks up the fruit so it all just rots on the ground every summer,” Canary wrinkles her nose as she says this, like she can still smell it, “I asked the owners if they would mind if I used them instead.”</p><p>“They said yes?” Amane guesses, looking down at the jar.</p><p>Canary smiles. “Well, yes. But then I had all these apples, and no idea what to do with them. Like, literal boxes full.” She holds her hands out to make a box, and Amane laughs. “So I made jam. I didn’t know how much of a project it would be, though. I think I’ll be cutting apples in my dreams for weeks!” </p><p>“Sounds like a lot of work,” Amane smoothes her fingers over the label on the jar. She had no idea anyone could make her name look so pretty. When she looks back up, Canary is staring at her. There’s a warmth in her eyes, like there always is. </p><p>When had she started noticing?</p><p>She clears her throat. “Well, uh, thank you. I’m kind of in the routine of toast for breakfast every morning so I’m excited to try this,” she gestures with the jar, like Canary needs to be reminded that it’s there. </p><p>“Awesome. Well, I’ll leave you to work. Let me know what you think of it,” Canary offers her a little wave as she turns to leave.</p><p>Amane realizes that that’s not how she wanted their conversation to end. Briefly, she thinks back to what she’d been thinking about during work the other day, and how much she’d thought about it since then. “Wait!” She reaches out to tug on Canary’s sleeve.</p><p>“Yeah?” Canary says it with a hum, and that one syllable makes Amane’s heart thud. </p><p>Amane swallows. She thinks back to the poster she saw on the flower shop window weeks ago, advertising a concert. She thinks about Mr. Leorio talking about it with Tsubone earlier that week. She thinks about sitting on the floor with a wrench in her fingers, planning this. She looks down at the floor, swallows again. Her fingers dig into Canary’s sleeve.</p><p>“Can I...I mean, would you like to, uh, go to a concert? With me? This weekend? It’s just at a little place downtown, I haven’t heard the band before but they seem cool and I, uh…” she trails off when Canary meets her eyes with a look that's a cross between warmth and excitement.</p><p>“Yeah, I’d like that,” she says, and Amane thinks she’s about to pass out. </p><p>“Cool, cool, I’ll, uh, text you the details later?” Amane offers. She loosens her grip on her arm, but Canary doesn’t move away yet.</p><p>“Sounds great.” Finally, she turns, and with a much more cheerful wave, disappears out the door. </p><p>Amane exhales. Her skin buzzes like she just finished running a marathon. </p><p>She said yes. </p><p>----------</p><p>Now, she needs an outfit. </p><p>This creates an unfortunate predicament because, obviously, Amane does not have the most extensive closet ever. She works in garages with machinery and grease all day, it wouldn’t make sense for her to constantly buy nice clothes. </p><p>This idea made sense the last time she went clothes shopping. Which may have been a year or two ago. It no longer does as she stands in front of her closet, already thinking about damage control. </p><p>It would be weird for her to dress up though, right? It is a concert, after all. And it’s not like Canary’s never seen her before. </p><p>So why does nothing she picks out feel right? She’s gone through the t-shirt drawer, through the pants drawer, even dug up clothes that are years old from the back of her closet. The floor is covered from the consequences of her sudden urge to look put together, and she heaves a sigh at a particularly offending pile of sweatshirts.  </p><p>They’d agreed to meet at the store in an hour. She sighs again, much more forcibly as if it will help, and starts to gather clothes off of the floor. At least she’ll have time to clean up her mess. </p><p>She considers each piece as she picks them back up. Some are absolute no’s, ratted old sweaters from years ago and too-small pants that she <i>really</i> should get rid of. Then her fingers slide over something smooth, and she yanks it out from under the pile. </p><p>It’s an old leather jacket Tsubone had gotten her as a birthday gift a year ago. It’s got studs lining it, glinting up at her under the bedroom light. She thought she’d lost it ages ago, and she’d given up on finding it too. It must’ve fallen between some boxes at the back of the closet or something.</p><p>She smiles. It’s kind of perfect. </p><p>---</p><p>“So, what do you know about this band?” </p><p>Amane shrugs as she searches through her bag for spare gloves. It's hard to see under the dim streetlights, the only things illuminating the back entrance of <i>Rider's High,/i&gt;. “I saw a poster, it looked really cool. Some of our customers have talked about them before, too.” She tosses Canary the spare leather gloves. </i></p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>She grins as she pulls them on. “I’m kind of excited. I’ve never been to a live concert before.”</p><p>“Really?” Amane gapes from where she’s checking the kickstand. Canary tries to look at least a little guilty. “Well, I think you’ll like it. I hope you will, at least.” She offers her the spare helmet from last time, and a tiny smile. </p><p>“Me too,” Canary pulls the helmet over her head and climbs on behind her. </p><p>“Do you remember what I said last time?” </p><p>Canary nods, and Amane shivers when her warm arms slide around her waist. “Left thigh for slower, right thigh for okay. Don't touch the ground when you stop” </p><p>Amane smiles. “Alright, then we’re off.”</p><p>---</p><p>Parking is certainly an…<i>ordeal.</i> They’ve got to drive around a bit, a few blocks down from where the show will be held. Eventually, a small space offers itself up in one of many downtown lots. </p><p>“Are we actually allowed in there? It <i>is</i> a bar, I mean.”</p><p>They’re pushing down the crowded downtown streets towards a bar with a huge, neon lit sign above it. A smaller sign underneath it is advertising <i>The Phantom Troupe</i> EP release concert. Amane grins. It’s been awhile since she’s been to a concert. </p><p>“Yeah, we are,” she says. A passerby bumps into her and she knocks elbows with Canary, who waves off her apologetic look. “There’s a section specifically for minors and people who aren’t drinking.” </p><p>Canary nods, looking like she very much understands this concept. She’s so busy doing that, however, that she walks right past the door to the bar. Amane hides her snort as best as she can, but Canary still gives her a mock-offended look. </p><p>The doors to the bar are pushed wide open, giving way to the dimly-lit insides. A scruffy looking man is leaning against a makeshift ticket counter, looking like he’d rather be doing anything else. Amane steps up to him and offers the two tickets she printed out at home along with a polite nod. </p><p>Canary lingers behind her, taking in the outside of the bar. She startles when the man motions for her to step forward so he can stamp a green star onto the back of her hand.</p><p>“Thank you,” Amane offers another nod to the man when she’s finished admiring her own star. Hesitating for only a moment, she grabs Canary’s hand and pulls her inside. </p><p>The inside of the bar isn’t as greasy as one would expect. It’s rather homey, actually, as much as a bar can be. The walls are covered with pictures of patrons, as well as what looks like stolen street signs, and the only light is coming from the stage set behind the bar counter. In between the counter and the stage, there’s a small open area, presumably for midnight dancing and off-key singing. Off to either side are sections of booths, the one to the left looking considerably cleaner and sporting a large sign that says <i>No Drinking Area.</i></p><p>“There it is.” Canary points to the sign by the booths on the left side. Amane squeezes her hand, and she can feel Canary relax just slightly. It’s almost a relief, and she lets go so they can descend the small set of steps into the lowered area. </p><p>They choose a booth closer to the stage, with green faux-leather seats and a tacky diner table. Amane tosses her bag into the seat before sliding in after it, while Canary settles in across from her. She looks a little out of her element. </p><p>“I must admit, I’m a little nervous to be here,” Canary gives a tentative laugh, reaching up to tug at one of the hairclips sectioning her hair into bunches. (Today, the butterfly clips are green, the same shade as the seats, Amane notices.)</p><p>“I get that, these places can be kinda overwhelming, especially for your first time.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Canary sighs, but then her eyes become comically big. “Wait-I don’t mean, like, that I’m not excited, because I totally am. Excited. To be here with you.” </p><p>Wow, Amane’s must be pounding loud enough that they won’t need a band for music tonight. Her ears are on fire. “No, no, I-I get that,” she offers her as reassuring a smile as she can. “Do you, uh, want me to go get sodas?” Not letting Canary watch her spontaneously combust seems to be the most appealing option, currently. </p><p>“Yeah, actually, that’d be great,” Canary pulls her bag into her lap to rifle around for her wallet, but Amane holds her hand out. </p><p>“No, no, I’ve got it,” is all she manages as she scurries out of the booth before Canary can protest. It had been her invitation, hadn’t it? Of course she wasn’t going to make Canary pay.</p><p>Once she was out of viewing distance, she exhaled slowly, deflating like a sad balloon. Why was her heart racing so fast? She’s been to a concert before, and she’s hung out with Canary before, too. </p><p>Why does it feel different this time, though?</p><p>The cool air from the open doors hits her cheeks as she steps up to the bar counter. She welcomes the chill as she waits for the bartender—a woman that seems way too kind to be working in a bar—to notice that she’s there. When she does, Amane offers a smile. </p><p>“What can I get for ya, hun?” the woman asks. She’s got a little bit of Southern accent, Amane thinks. </p><p>“Just two colas, please.” </p><p>The woman nods, reaching below the counter and producing two glass bottles of soda. A bottle open appears from somewhere else, and she cracks them both open. It’s so stereotypical that Amane almost laughs. </p><p>“Here ya are,” the woman says, and Amane pulls out a handful of dollar bills to push across the counter.</p><p>“You can keep the extra,” she says hurriedly, before grabbing the two bottles by the necks and turning away. “Christ, Amane, get it together,” she mumbles to herself. </p><p>Canary smiles when she slides back into the booth. There’s a normalcy to it, the way she always looks slightly amused, like she’s about to tell you a fantastic joke and cannot wait to say the punchline. It calms her thudding heart, just a bit. </p><p>She pushes one bottle across the table, keeping the other for herself. Canary looks grateful, relaxing her face a bit as she brings her lips to the mouth of the glass. “I haven’t had cola in ages,” she admits before she takes a drink.</p><p>“Me either.” </p><p>Even after a moment, Canary still looks a bit tense, nervous, her shoulders taught underneath her sweater. “Would it help if I told you about the first time I went to one of these?” Amane speaks up from her side of the table. “If it’s any consolation, it was really, <i>really</i> embarrassing.”</p><p>Canary visibly relaxes into the welcome distraction of conversation, resting her elbows on the table so she can cradle her face in her hands. Her fingernail scratches at the paper label on the bottle. “Oh, it definitely would.” That smile again. </p><p>“So, picture me, fourteen, discovering my favourite niche band playing in town. I totally begged and begged Tsubone to let me go, of course, and she didn’t want me to by myself.” Amane gestures like she’s some grand storyteller at that, which makes Canary grin. </p><p>It certainly is a grand story, full of unnecessary gesturing while she describes the horrible first time she had at a bar concert. It may or may not have included a drunk college student and uncovering a band scandal, only because Amane had gotten lost on the way back from the bathroom. </p><p>“And-” Amane tries to continue, but Canary’s busy dissolving into a puddle of laughter across from her. It’s highly distracting. “Hey! Stop laughing!” she lectures, albeit holding back laughter herself. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just, I cannot imagine you with <i>braces,</i> telling off a thirty-something for...” she trails off, trying desperately to stifle her laughter into her hand. Amane thinks there may even be tears in her eyes. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, okay, laugh at the fourteen year old kid with braces, I get it,” Amane crosses her arms, trying to act offended. She doesn’t think it quite works when Canary just snorts harder. </p><p>She opens her mouth to continue poking fun at her, when they—along with everyone else in the building—are interrupted by a shrill ringing sound. Everyone scrambles to cover their ears while a lanky guy with overgrown black hair steps up to the mic. </p><p>“Apologies, I gather this is working?” he says. It’s then Amane notices that the stage has been filled with instruments, as well as what she assumes is the band. There’s a blonde woman with a hooked nose fingering the strings of her bass, while a huge, burly guy next to her nudges her over to plug his guitar into the amp at her feet. The woman on the drums is twirling a drumstick with absentminded ease, hot pink hair pulled back from her face. </p><p>On the other side of the booth, it’s like a switch has been turned on. After relaxing, Canary seems to be vibrating with anticipation. Amane’s lips slip into a smile. This is going to be awesome. </p><p>The man at the microphone clears his throat. “Thank you very much for coming. I’m Chrollo and we’re <i>The Phantom Troupe.</i> This is the first track of our EP, <i>Spiders.</i>” </p><p>The woman on drums thrusts her sticks in the air and counts, “One, two, three, four!” </p><p>And then they begin.</p><p>It’s loud, in the good way that makes you want to stamp your feet and confess to someone how much you hate them. It’s one of Amane’s favourite feelings. (Besides the feeling of flying down the freeway on a motorcycle. Nothing tops that, ever.)</p><p>Canary’s up on her feet before the third track even starts, leaning against the railings separating the booths from the dance floor, where other onlookers are cheering and singing and moving. She turns back to flash Amane the widest grin she’s ever seen, and Amane lets herself be pulled out of the booth by the wrist. There’s laughter on her tongue, spilling out of her mouth as the drum beat picks up and Canary shakes her shoulders to the beat. </p><p>She’s never been one for dancing, but it’s hard to deny the insistent tug of Canary’s hands on her sleeves, her lapels. Her fingers loosen the muscles in her shoulders until Amane begrudgingly bumps her shoulder back against Canary’s, moving to the beat of the bass. It can hardly be called dancing, but she likes it anyway.</p><p>The guitar kicks off into a solo then, taking away the breath of the entire bar. Canary pauses for a moment beside her, watching the guitarists fingers slide between frets like it’s no problem at all, his hands blurring from the speed. There's another nudge on her shoulder, and she looks down at Canary, who glances at the stage like <i>Are you seeing this?</i> Amane bites the inside of her cheek, but it does nothing to quell the smile on her lips, or the pressing ache in her chest. </p><p>Canary turns back to the stage, then, whooping as the guitar sounds its final note. Amane joins in, cupping her hands around her mouth so she’ll be heard amidst all of the applause. </p><p>The vocalist grabs the mic, his hair slick with sweat and pushed away from his face. “Thank you for coming tonight. This next track is our last one.” He takes a breath, and then the drums begin to pound behind him. </p><p>Amane decides she likes this track the best. It’s as loud as the others, but something about the way the singer’s voice sounds against the guitar raises goosebumps on her skin.</p><p> </p><p>She glances over at Canary for just a moment, in between the vocalist’s breaths. The pink and blue lights wash over her skin, pushing neon-coloured shadows onto her face. Canary looks up at her then, bathed in those lights, and Amanes lungs fill with soda fizz. </p><p>It’s so brief she thinks she’s imagined it, but there's a soft smile, a gentle offering that Amane has no choice but to accept, and then she’s gone. Turned back to the stage, clapping her hands with the crowd. </p><p>She thinks about it for the rest of the song. </p><p>---</p><p>Thankfully it’s not a long ride from downtown to Canary’s apartment. She can tell Canary’s getting tired, her energy sapped from the excitement of the event. They pull into the parking lot a little past eleven, the streetlamps illuminating Canary’s face as she pulls the helmet off. </p><p>“Thank you for tonight, I…” Canary pauses, her smile almost sheepish, “I had a lot of fun.”</p><p>“Of course,” Amane flashes her a brief, genuine grin. “I’m really glad you enjoyed it.” </p><p>Canary’s eyes flit down, then back up. She seems almost...nervous, her hands trembling at her sides. Amane kind of wants to hold her hands, still her trembling fingers. She kind of wants to kiss her. </p><p><i>She kind of wants to kiss her.</i> </p><p>Oh.</p><p>Canary’s lips are moving, she’s saying something about next week and a picnic, but Amane’s stuck on the shape of her lips, the way her hands are still trembling. </p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p><p>“And, well, I know a nice spot, and since summer just started, I thought a picnic might be...nice.” Her hands clasp together then, beginning to still. </p><p>Amane looks back up. “A, uh, a picnic sounds awesome.” </p><p>The way Canary beams at her then is so bright, Amane’s glad her helmet dims part of her vision. She might go blind otherwise.</p><p>“I’ll text you when, then.” Canary turns to start up the stairs to her apartment. “Good night, Amane,” she says softly before turning away.</p><p>“Good night.” </p><p>She watches until she can see Canary push open her apartment door, turning around to wave one last goodbye. The door shuts. </p><p>Amane kicks up the kickstand and revs the engine. </p><p><i>I want to kiss her.</i> </p><p>----------<br/>
The weather is well-timed and lovely a week later. All blue sky and calm breeze the day Canary pushes open the door to the shop, a small picnic basket in hand. </p><p>That day Amane’s working in the garage, covered in dust and grime, her hair pulled into a bun on top of her head. Canary smiles in her perpetually amused way when she pokes her head into the garage, reaching out a hand to brush a patch of dirt off of her cheek. Amane nearly short-circuits. </p><p>“I’m,” she clears her throat, “I’m just gonna go clean up really fast.” And with a gesture over her shoulder, she’s gone, locked inside the shop’s tiny bathroom. </p><p>It’s been a week since the concert, she thinks as she busies washing the dirt off of her skin. And a week since her...revelation, her brain helpfully supplies. What’s she supposed to do now? Should she tell her? Would she even feel the same? Does she even like girls?</p><p>Oh god, <i>does she even like girls?</i></p><p>Amane groans. Never once, in all of her late-night thinking about this revelation, had she considered the possibility that Canary might be straight. She groans again for added effect. Best not to dwell on that now. </p><p>She turns on the sink to splash water on her face with an air of finality.</p><p>Or, perhaps, ever.</p><p>Canary’s kneeling by the dahlia when Amane finally returns from the bathroom. Turning her head at the sound of Amane’s approaching footsteps, she flashes up a tiny smile. “The dahlia is looking better.” </p><p>“All thanks to you,” Amane shrugs. There’s no hiding the prideful shine in her eyes, though. </p><p>Canary pushes herself off of the tiled floors and stands, brushing off her skirt. “Shall we go, then?”</p><p>Her ears warm, Amane laughs. “We shall.”</p><p>Apparently, there’s a secluded little river in the trees just past Main Street. A small, grassy bank dotted with wildflowers leading down to the clear, running water. Amane is shocked that she didn’t know there was even a river here before, although she can’t think of a single reason why, hypothetically, she would know. It doesn’t surprise her that Canary knows, though. </p><p>They’ve brought a blanket, of course, that Amane dug up from the hall closet before she left for work this morning. It’s faded, with blue and green and white stripes. It brings back a brief memory from when she was little, helping Tsubone spread it out on the sand of a beach. She mentions as such to Canary, who snorts. </p><p>“For some reason, I have a hard time imagining you liking the beach at all,” Canary explains when Amane raises a quizzical eyebrow. </p><p>“Oh, I never said I liked it,” she grins, picturing herself seven years old and grumpy, Tsubone at the mercy of her childish stomping. “I hated everything about the sand and the smell of seaweed.”</p><p>Amane’s fingers still where she was smoothing out the wrinkles in the corners of the blanket. There’s something about the way Canary laughs then, her eyes all crinkled at the edges. </p><p>She’s just got to pause and process it, okay.</p><p>After the blanket is set up, Canary begins to pull things out of her basket, which Amane still finds jarringly stereotypical and kind of adorable. She pulls out little sandwiches and napkins, which are placed next to the juice and veggie slices Amane woke up early to cut. At the very end, Canary pulls a whole pie pan out of the bottom of the basket.</p><p>“Did you bake that?” Amane leans over to inspect what her nose recognizes as apple pie. </p><p>“Yup,” she says as sets it carefully on the blanket. </p><p>“I take it you didn’t use up all of the apples when you made your jam.” </p><p>Canary laughs. “I certainly didn’t. I’ve been eating apple things for weeks since then, you’d be surprised how much fruit one little tree can produce.”</p><p>“Wow, that sounds <i>terrible</i>,” she says, side-eying Canary at the sarcasm. Canary gives her a playful shove of the shoulders and she laughs. </p><p>“So <i>you</i> say. <i>I</i> can only eat so much streusel for breakfast before I reach my limit.”</p><p>“Oh my god, <i>apple streusel</i>. For <i>breakfast.</i>”</p><p>“Please, come over and eat it all. I’m begging you.” </p><p>They both dissolve into laughter at that. Amane thinks about the implication there, going over to Canary’s apartment for breakfast in the morning. It’s unnecessary, of course, she can always eat breakfast at home. But something about the idea makes Amane’s fingers itch to hold Canary’s. It sounds nice. </p><p>Time softens on that riverbank, like buttercream on warm cake. They trade work stories over the little sandwiches that Canary made, Amane nearly makes Canary choke on her pie telling about how Bisky from the cafe came into the shop the other day. Hunting along the water for smooth rocks, Canary tries to teach Amane how to make them skip. She doesn’t quite get it down, but instead finds a small frog that she captures between her hands. </p><p>Amane calls Canary over, quietly. She steps over the rocks, carefully so as not to disturb the sudden sense of calm washed along the bank and through the trees. Gently, Canary’s hands come up to cup her own while they both peer inside at the little creature. </p><p>In the dying sunlight, Canary’s brown eyes are ringed in a halo of light, her eyelashes casting little shadows along her cheeks. The urge to brush the scar above Canary’s brow with her fingertips is suddenly dizzying, but the warmth of her hands and the small frog that’s captured their attention reminds her that she can’t let go. </p><p>Canary grins up at her then, big and open, and Amane’s lips have already begun to move.</p><p>“Hey, can I...tell you something?” she forces the words out carefully, afraid she’ll lose her nerve but too nervous to sound any more sure. </p><p>Leaning back on her heels, Canary’s smile never dims. “Of course.”</p><p>Amane inhales. What the <i>fuck</i> is she doing? She didn’t plan on telling her, ever. Certainly not right now. And yet, her mouth opens anyway. </p><p>“I…I like you. A lot. I like you a lot.” Oh god, suddenly her teeth are getting in the way of her tongue and she’s stumbling over the words before they’re even out of her mouth. “Sorry. If that’s weird to say, uh, not the liking part just the way I said it. Um.” She focuses on the frog in her hands. Honestly, she’s unsure if she would be able to get through this looking Canary in the eyes. </p><p>“For a while now, I guess. Er, I mean, I guess I’m just saying, because--well, I’m actually not sure why I’m telling you at all but,” she exhales, “I like you.”</p><p>She chances a glance up then, just to see. She has to know what she’s thinking. (If she feels the same.)</p><p>Surprise is not what she expects, nor is confusion. Silence, a little more expected. Canary’s mouth opens once. She closes it, opens it again. </p><p>Amane gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. </p><p>“I-I’m really sorry. I know that was sudden, I,” she steps back, abruptly, releasing the frog from her palms to hop away towards the water. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll just-” she begins to turn, frantic, to run back to their picnic spot and gather her things and never, ever show her face around the flower shop ever again. She read it so, so wrong. </p><p>A hand closes around her wrist. </p><p>She stops. Her eyes sting, cheeks red from a different, worse kind of embarrassment. She locks eyes with Canary anyways. </p><p>“Wait,” she says. Surprise still colours her face, along with something else Amane can’t place. So she waits. </p><p>“I...this must look really bad on my part, I promise it’s not, I-” she lets out a stark, confused laugh. Now Amane’s the one who’s confused. “I, I like you too. Like really like you.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <i>I like you too.</i>
</p><p>Canary keeps going. “I just, oh my god, I’m sorry, I was just...I thought we were already...going on dates? I thought the concert was a date?”</p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p><p>Oh, god. </p><p>Realization dawns upon the pair of them, and Amane turns around fully to face her. The grip on her wrist doesn’t loosen. She doesn’t want it to.</p><p>“Oh my god,” she says aloud. “Oh my god. <i>Was this supposed to be a date?</i>”</p><p>Canary startles with another laugh. “Yes!” She slaps a hand over her eyes. “Yes, it was!”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Amane repeats, dropping her face into her free hand. More laughter sounds from Canary’s lips. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.” She lifts her face from her hand then, pointing an amazed finger at herself. “You <i>like</i> me?”</p><p>“Yes! Don’t sound so surprised about it!” </p><p>Amane can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of her then, making her double over. She drops her forehead onto Canary’s shoulder. “I can’t believe this,” she says between gasps of air.</p><p>“Me either,” Canary says, her voice almost breathless. She can feel the laughter in Canary’s shoulders, the smell of baking from this morning still lingering on her clothes. Amane lifts her head, the last remnants of giggles leaving her. </p><p>She looks down at Canary’s nervous, trembling fingers, and remembers how she wanted to hold them that night at her apartment. Incredulously, she does just then. </p><p>Her hands are warm. </p><p>When she lifts her eyes from their hands, Canary meets her. Amane smiles wide, so wide her cheeks begin to ache. Canary offers her a smile in return. Amane takes it, a soft gesture, and reaches out to lay a hand on her cheek. “Can I…?”</p><p>She nods, and gently, her eyes flutter closed. Amane leans in.</p><p>She tastes like apples.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you very much for reading this! uhh feel free to come talk to me (or just hang out) on <a href="https://mossintheconcrete.tumblr.com/">tumblr @mossintheconcrete!!</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>